


tell me you love me

by natlet



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-22
Updated: 2012-11-22
Packaged: 2017-11-19 06:59:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/570483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/natlet/pseuds/natlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charming, 1993.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me you love me

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through 1x07

The idea of having a party hadn't sat right with some of the guys, what with JT barely in the grave and shit with the Mayans just starting to seem like it might calm down, but Clay had insisted, said they needed it. Tig thinks he's probably right - nobody seems to have that much of a problem with it now that the beer's flowing, at least, and after too many nights of the compound being on lockdown, everyone and their families all crammed into the clubhouse, the kids screaming up and down the halls, it's nice to get the place back to normal.

So maybe he's had a few too many to drink, maybe he's worked his way through half the crow-eaters in the place already, so what; it's been a rough few weeks, and Tig can feel the weight of the club's eyes on him, the weight of the patch on his chest, and he's starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he does something crazy tonight, everybody might understand. Clay might understand.

Across the room, Clay's got his arms around two tiny blondes, their tits pressed up against his sides. He catches Tig's eye, tipping the mouth of his beer bottle in Tig's direction, grinning like an hour ago they hadn't been up on 44 burying goddamn bodies. Tig looks away, lifting his own beer to his mouth, the last flat half-swallow sliding thick and warm down his throat. _Fuck Clay anyway,_ he thinks, turning to drop the empty bottle on the bar. _Fuck him._ "Hey baby, hey," Tig mutters, reaching out without looking, curling his hand around the first slim, smooth arm he touches. The girl falls into his lap, giggling, and even as he buries his face between her unnaturally perfect tits, Tig can hear Clay laughing. 

*

"That what you needed?" Clay asks later, leaning up against the bar behind Tig. 

The party's winding down, Bobby passed out on the pool table in a pile of pussy, Otto drooling on the couch. The guys - this had been good for them. "No," Tig says. His dick's still hard in his jeans, damp skin rubbing uncomfortably against the rough denim. He still isn't sure if the stupid bitch had actually thought he'd come, or if she'd just gone to find a guy who'd act like he appreciated having his dick in her mouth. Tig hadn't asked. 

Clay's hand comes down heavy on his back, and it's all Tig can do to not slump against him. He's so close it wouldn't make much of a difference - Tig can already feel the warmth of Clay's body through his cut. At some point, personal space had stopped mattering - maybe down there in the dirt, or at the top of the hill just after, when they'd stood next to the van catching their breath, hands tight on each other's shoulders, holding each other up. "C'mon," Clay says, low and close to Tig's ear, and Tig must've had too much to drink because he doesn't even hesitate, just slides off the bar stool and follows Clay, follows Clay even though he knows he shouldn't.

This is dangerous, this thing with them. It fucks up Tig's head. It's poison.

Nobody bothers them on their way up the stairs and down the hall. Tig hesitates in the doorway, then thinks _fuck it_ and sinks down to sit on the edge of the couch as Clay shuts the door, locks them inside. It's quieter like this, the music faded down to a low background throb, quiet enough that if Tig closes his eyes he can almost shut the rest of the shit out, forget it, pretend this is some other night, some night where he hasn't buried anyone he knows lately. He draws a shaking breath, another. 

The cushion dips as Clay sits down beside Tig, one hand resting behind him, barely not touching. "He was a rat, man," Clay says. "He was a fucking rat. We did good. We did right." 

Tig says, "Yeah, yeah, I know," but in his head he's thinking, _are you sure?_ He knows he's an asshole for thinking it, a traitor, almost - it's his job now to believe Clay, always, without question or hesitation, it's the only way this works. And Tig's seen some shit, walked in the sort of places most guys have nightmares about, walked through them and come out the other side clean, or mostly clean - but he keeps thinking about Jackson and Lowell Junior and Piney's kid playing basketball in the parking lot, and boys that age need _fathers_ , man, and now - 

Clay sighs, heavy and slow. "Shit. Come on." He leans in closer, arm curving against Tig's back, hand sliding up, over the Reaper, curling around the back of Tig's neck. "This shit with the Mayans - we're at war, brother. You know I need you with me on this." 

"I am," Tig says, but it's not fast enough, or he doesn't sound sure enough because Clay's hand tightens on the back of his head, drawing Tig around until they're face to face, close enough Tig can feel warm little puffs of air against his lips as Clay breathes. 

"I'm gonna look out for this club," Clay says. "You know I love it. I'm not gonna take us down a road I can't bring us back up," and for a second _bullshit, that's bullshit_ hangs right on the edge of Tig's lips, but then Clay says, "Can you do this, or not?" 

"I can," Tig says - quick, no thought, just instinct, and it almost hurts, how true the words feel.

"Good." Clay gives him a warm smile, hand sliding around to cup Tig's cheek, thumb stroking at the corner of Tig's mouth, and for a second Tig thinks maybe - but then Clay says, "Want me to send that sweetbutt up?" 

Tig shakes his head. "Nah. Wasn't worth it the first time," he says.

Clay laughs, patting Tig's cheek gently. "We're gonna be all right, brother." 

"Yeah," Tig says. "I know." 

Clay stands and starts to go, but he pauses by the doorway, tossing Tig the blanket that sits folded on top of the dresser. "You should stay here tonight," he says. 

"I know," Tig says again, and Clay pulls the door shut behind him as he goes. 

Tig undoes the laces on his boots, kicks them off, stretches out on the couch. Downstairs, the music stops abruptly; Tig hears footsteps on the stairs, a door closing, then the clubhouse falls silent. He slides his hand under the blanket, unbuckles his belt, and if he jerks off thinking about Clay's big hand on his dick, if he bites his lip bloody when he comes, so what - Clay of all people should understand.


End file.
